


Thank You, Gideon

by kms726



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-14
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-26 14:28:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/967023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kms726/pseuds/kms726
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean are left in a motel room on a hot summer today, and get an unwelcome and pesky visitor. My first Weechester! and Supernatural fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thank You, Gideon

July 29, 1990  
Dyersburg, Tennessee

 

Eleven-year-old Dean and seven-year-old Sam Winchester were spending another hot, lazy summer day cooped up in a motel room while they waited for their father to return from a hunt. 

Dean was currently cleaning up their lunch mess, washing the dishes in the sink and setting them on the counter to dry. When he finished with that task, he moved onto scraping the melted cheese off the sides of the microwave from their homemade nachos fiasco.

Satisfied that he'd gotten the worst of the mess cleaned up, Dean turned away from the kitchenette to see what his little brother was up to. Sammy was sitting at the small round table by the window, legs tucked up underneath him, leaning over the table where his head was bent down over his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles coloring book. Half of a burnt orange Crayola crayon was tucked in his fist, carefully shading in Michelangelo's mask.

“Sammy!” Dean threw down the rag he was holding, marching across the room to where his brother was.

Sammy looked up innocently in response to his big brother's reprimanding tone. “What? I'm just coloring!”

Dean pointed to the open window beside Sammy. “We're supposed to keep all the doors and windows locked. You know that, Sammy.”

“But Dean, it's so hot!” Sammy complained. 

“I've got the AC on full-blast, Sammy—”

“It's still too hot,” Sammy lamented. “I wish we could go swimming...”

“Well, we can't,” said Dean flatly, deftly closing and locking the window and shutting the blinds. “Oh, Sammy—you broke the salt line,” he tutted, noticing a large gap on the white line across the windowsill, the fallen salt littering the carpet under the window.

Sammy hopped down from his chair. “Why do we need to put salt lines everywhere we go, anyway?”

“I told you, Sammy,” said Dean with forced patience, “It's just for good luck.”

Sammy looked at his older brother shrewdly. “Good luck against what?”

“Against anything,” said Dean cryptically, trying to use the remaining salt on the ledge to fill in the gap. 

“Why do we have to stay inside all day?” 

“Because dad said so,” Dean answered.

“Yeah, but why?” 

Dean sighed. “You ask too many questions, Sammy.”

Sam frowned, another question clearly frozen on his lips. Rephrasing, Sammy gazed out the window at the nearly deserted parking lot and said, “That's cos no one ever tells me anything! I don't see anything out there we need 'good luck' against...”

“There isn't,” said Dean flatly, staring Sam dead in the eyes. He never wanted his little brother to know what was really out there—wanted to protect him from ever finding out the truth. A part of him was jealous his brother still possessed his childish naivety. “Forget I said anything, alright?”

Hearing the finality in his brother's voice, Sammy gave his head the most subtle nod of understanding before turning and heading for the bathroom. “Aim for the center, Sammy!”

Dean looked up just in time to see Sammy sticking his tongue out at him from around the door frame. He heard the door shut and took a deep breath, closing his eyes. He wondered how much longer he and his dad could keep lying to Sammy about dad's “job” before he would start to get wise. The kid was already too smart for his own good.

Dean surveyed the salt line, and decided it was too sparse. He went over to the kitchenette where a can of rock salt was sitting on the counter. Dean's hand was just closing around the container when he heard a loud scream come from the bathroom.

“SAMMY!” Dean yelled. In his haste to get to Sammy, the can of rock salt slipped out of Dean's grip, falling and spilling out onto the floor. Dean sprinted across the room in a few short strides, and then felt a blinding flash of pain across his face as he reached the door. In a daze, Dean looked up and saw Sammy standing across the room by the window again. The lower half of his face felt wet. He brushed his hand across his mouth and found that it came away covered in blood. 

“I'm sorry, Dean!” Sammy yelled in a panic, suddenly by his side and clinging to his arm. “I didn't know you were standing there—”

“Right, you hit me in the face with the door,” Dean muttered, rubbing the bridge of his very sore nose. He pinched the sides of his nose to stem the flow of blood, looking down and seeing his olive-colored shirt was already splattered with blood. He coughed, more blood spilling out of his mouth.

“I'm sorry!” Sammy pleaded again. “I'm really sorry, Dean—I didn't mean to!”

“It's okay,” said Dean calmly, wiping his mouth and nose on the hem of his t-shirt. “Why'd you scream, Sammy?”

Sammy raised his hand and dramatically pointed at something over Dean's shoulder. He heard an ominous humming behind him. Turning around slowly, Dean found himself face-to-face with a honeybee.

Yelling, Dean stumbled backwards. “How'd that thing get in here?!”

“Probably when I had the window open,” said Sammy. “It's my fault—I broke the salt line!”

“Oh yeah, cos this is exactly the sort of thing we wanna keep out,” Dean muttered under his breath, blood still dripping from his nose.

“What?” said Sammy.

“Nothing,” Dean watched as the bee circled over their heads. He swatted at the bee when it came down to his level, buzzing away from him in a high, angry arch.

“Dean—don't!” Sammy tugged on his sleeve. “Don't hurt him!”

“What?” Dean stared at Sammy. “You screamed—I thought you wanted it de—”

“It scared me, that's all,” Sammy insisted, “Don't kill it! My teacher in Des Moines, Mrs. Bradshaw, said that honeybees are really important and they make honey and pollinate flowers—”

“Then what do you want me to do?” Dean demanded. “Just let it fly around in here and wait for it so sting one of us?”

“It won't hurt us if we leave it alone!” Sammy exclaimed, “If we can just lure it out of the room—”

“With what, Sammy? Some leftover nachos?” The bee whizzed by Dean's ear. “Right—that's it!”

“Dean—no!” Sammy yelled again as Dean took off, chasing the bee's progress around the room. He followed at Dean's heels, trying to stop him—pulling at his t-shirt and dragging his heels into the ground.

“Dean—stop!” Sammy pleaded, “You're bleeding everywhere!”

Dean paused in pursuit long enough to wipe his hand across his face to find that Sammy was right—he was still bleeding, and there was evidence of it all over the room in the form of little blood droplets on the carpet and any surface he'd passed over. The bee always seemed to be able to stay just out of his reach and one step ahead. It paused on the wall to take a breather while Dean caught up, flying away just as Dean's hand smacked the wall, leaving behind half a bloody hand print.

Trying a different approach, Sammy clambered up onto the bed and leaped onto Dean's back, wrapping his legs around his waist and clinging to his back, pinning his arms. “G'eroff, Sammy!”

“No!” Sammy yelled stubbornly, “Not till you say you'll leave him alone!”

The two brothers struggled—Dean to free himself, Sammy to hold onto Dean as tight as he could to stem the attack. The bee circled tauntingly over their heads, Dean watching its progress with maddening eyes. Dean stumbled into the bedside table, sending the lamp crashing to the floor. “Fine,” Dean said resignedly, his muscles easing. “I'll stop.” 

Sammy waited a moment to see if Dean was serious, and the second Sammy's grip slackened, Dean shrugged his shoulders and deposited Sammy in a heap on the bed behind them, before taking off on his hunt again. “Deeeeeeeean!” 

Seeing the bee circling the ceiling, Dean used a chair to clamber up unto the table, knocking the chair over in the process. He bent down on his haunches and picked up one of his dad's newspapers, rolling it up. He waited for the bee to dare to fly near him, arm and new weapon raised and poised to attack.

The bee flew tauntingly close to Dean, who swung and made contact, swatting the bee and sending it spiraling to the ground where it lay, dazed.

“Don't touch it, Sammy—” Dean cautioned as Sammy approached the fallen arthropod. Sammy ignored Dean, scooping the bee up in his hands, cupping it securely. He hurried across the room, carrying the bee to safety. He sat on one of the beds, glaring at Dean. He made a slight gap between his two hands to peak in at the bee. “It's alright, he won't hurt you anymore—OW!” Sammy leaped to his feet, dropping the bee in shock, where it fell onto the nightstand.

Dean jumped off the table, dropping his newspaper. “Did it sting you?”

Sammy nodded in disbelief, looking down at the bee who'd betrayed him. “I was trying to help him...”

“See? I told you they were all evil,” said Dean, crossing the room. He picked up a copy of The Bible and brought it down on the bee. “Thank you, Gideon.”

“Dean!”

“What?” Dean demanded. “It stung you! Besides, it was gonna die anyway. They always do when they lose their stinger.” He brushed the smashed little bee to the floor with a sweep of his hand. “Lemme see it.”

Hesitantly, Sammy held out his right palm. Dean held it close to his eyes. He turned to switch on the lamp to get some better light before he remembered the lamp was laying broken on the ground. “Come on,” he said, dragging Sammy into the kitchenette.

“Okay, gimme your hand,” said Dean, now that they were standing under the bright fluorescent light in the kitchen. Sammy obeyed, and Dean was just bringing his index finger down over the stinger when Sammy flinched away. He'd never been stung before, and he was scared. Sammy shielded his hand close to his body. “W-what are you gonna do?”

“I've gotta get the stinger out,” said Dean patiently. 

“Will it hurt?” asked Sammy in a small voice.

“It will hurt a whole lot more if I don't get that stinger out soon. Here,” Dean reached for the box of sugar cubes by the coffee maker, handing Sam a small handful. “Eat these. Mom used to give me sugar cubes whenever I got stung to distract me while she took out the stinger. It helped a lot.”

Sammy nodded, and in good faith, placed one of the sugar cubes on his tongue and smiled at Dean, holding out his hand. Dean squinted to see the stinger better, and used his index finger to scrape the stinger away, brushing his hand off on his shorts. He examined the sting again. “There—all better, Sammy!”

“But it still hurts...” Sammy pouted, staring down at his poor swollen hand.

“It will for a little while,” said Dean. “It would really help if we had some ice...”

“There's an ice box outside. I saw it,” Sam informed him. “We can go get some.”

“No, Sammy,” said Dean, shaking his head. “You know dad said that we can't leave the room.”

“But Dean,” Sammy pouted, “My hand hurts really bad! We can run and get ice real quick—dad will never even know we were gone! Please, Dean!”

Dean couldn't allow Sammy's puppy dog eyes to sway him, so he stared at the mini-fridge as he weighed his decision. Not leaving the room was a rule he wouldn't soon forget—not after last time, when his disobeying his father's orders had almost gotten Sammy killed. But on the other hand, it was entirely different circumstances today: it was broad daylight, they'd only be gone two minutes—tops, he'd be taking Sammy with him...and the overriding order of his father had always been to look out for Sammy. And right now, Sammy was hurting and he knew how to help make him feel better.

Dean weighed his options and the sad, pained look on Sammy's face made up his mind. He grabbed his little brother's good hand. “Come on.”

The boys moved over to the the door, Sammy subconsciously walking on tiptoe for fear of being caught. Dean unlocked the door and undid the deadbolt, and slowly opened the front door. He poked his head outside, and was hit by a blast of hot summer air. After appraising the parking lot and seeing there wasn't a soul in sight, Dean declared, “Okay. Coast is clear.”

Sammy stepped outside and Dean shut the door behind him. “We've gotta be quick.” The brothers sprinted across the asphalt to the other side of the complex, where the ice machine was sitting in the shade outside the manager's office. 

Dean opened the cooler, the rising cold air was pleasant on his face. Sammy stood on his toes to peer over the side. “Dean, you forgot the ice bucket!”

“Oh well—it's not like we need a whole bucket for that little thing,” Dean picked up the cold metal ice scoop. “Hold out your hands, Sammy.” 

Sammy did as he was told, and Dean scooped up some ice chips, shaking a few of them out into Sammy's hands. He shivered slightly, grinning at Dean. “That feels good!”

“Just keep it in your hands, we need to get inside before they melt,” said Dean, shutting the ice box.

“Do you want any for your nose?” Sammy asked, holding out his ice-filled hands.

“No, I'm fine,” said Dean, touching his nose and feeling the bleeding had subsided, and felt flaky dried blood in its place. He wiped his face with the hem of his already blood-stained t-shirt. He looked down and saw Sammy trying to store some of the ice chips in his pockets. “What're you doing? It's ninety degrees outside, do you wanna look like you wet your pants?”

Sammy giggled “No, I—” his face fell, and his smile vanished. Sammy's little eyes went wide, pointing at something behind Dean. The older Winchester felt his heart leap into his throat at the look on Sammy's face, terrified to turn around—imagining a great hulking monster over his shoulder. “What, Sammy? What is it?”

“Dad,” Sammy whispered. Dean did a one-eighty and sure enough, he saw the Impala cruising down the road towards the motel, turning into the lot...dad was home early.

Panicked, Dean's eyes flew to room 16 across the lot—there was no way they'd be able to get back to their room without their dad seeing—they'd have to run right in front of his car. Realizing he might see them anyway where they were standing, Dean grabbed Sammy, yelling, “Get down!” Afraid the ice box wouldn't offer enough coverage, the boys got down on their hands and knees and crawled forward a few paces to hide alongside the manager's station wagon.

Sam and Dean laid on their stomachs on the hot pavement, watching through the gap under the station wagon. The brothers held their breath as they watched the wheels of the family car roll by. When the Impala had passed by them, the boys rose up to watch through the windows of the car.

John pulled the Impala up to the parking spot in front of Room 16. They heard the rumble of the engine fade and saw the break lights go off. A moment later, John Winchester exited the vehicle, wearing a faded leather jacket and grass-stained, torn jeans. He was unshaven and looked like he hadn't slept the whole time he was gone. John stretched and cracked his neck, and swung the car door closed. He limped to the trunk and retrieved his duffel bag. Dean watched, his brain numb as it tried and failed to think a way out of this one—they were really in it this time. Dean wasn't so afraid of a verbal scolding and another firm lecture about following orders, or even about potentially losing his TV privileges—there was no punishment John could inflict on Dean that would be greater than the mental chastisement he gave himself when he felt like he'd let his dad down. His dad being proud of him and how he took care of Sammy was everything to Dean. He'd failed him once before, and he had vowed to never let it happen again...

The boys watched their father swing the straps of his duffel bag onto his shoulders and march up to the door of their room. “We are so screwed,” Dean whispered to his brother, looking at Sammy to see he was biting his nails. John raised his fist and did their secret knock on the door: the beat of the guitar riff from “Smoke on the Water”--Dean was proud to say it was his idea.

“What're we gonna do, Dean?” Sammy said in a hushed voice.

“I dunno, Sammy,” Dean admitted heavily.

“But Dean, dad's gonna know we're gone right away, and when we don't answer—”

“I know, I know. Shut up...just lemme think for a minute...”

“My ice is almost all melted...”

“Shhhhh!”

When no one answered, John knocked again, harder. His shoulders tensed, and he looked over his shoulder with a wild, scared look in his eyes that made Dean feel both immensely uneasy and guilty for being crouched safely behind a car with Sammy, a hundred feet away, while his father was no doubt imagining the worst case scenario for why his sons weren't rushing to answer the door like they always did when he returned.

Dean smacked himself in the forehead for forgetting to lock the door as John tried the knob and it opened—the key was in Dean's pocket. Now dad would know for sure something was up. They watched as their father disappeared into the empty room...

“What are you boys doing?”

Dean and Sam nearly jumped out of their skin, turning about to find the manager standing there, smoking a cigarette and brandishing her broom. “Get away from my car!” she shooed them, swinging her broom at them.

They didn't need telling twice. The boys scrambled to their feet and bolted, stopping a safe distance away, leaning against the wall of Room 8. 

“We might as well get this over with,” Dean said resignedly, although facing his father after disobeying a direct order (especially one he'd broken in the past), was the absolute last thing Dean wanted to do. “The longer we're gone, the more mad he'll be. Just follow my lead, Sammy. Let me do all the talking. And do that lost puppy look of yours.” The one that always makes you get your way, he mentally added.

Sammy lowered his chin to his chest and raised sad hazel eyes up to look at Dean, tilted his head to the side and stuck out his lower lip in a pout. “Like that?”

“Perfect,” Dean said, suddenly feeling the urge to give Sammy anything he wanted. “Just like that.”

“What about you, Dean?”

“What about me?”

“You're covered in blood! What's dad gonna say?”

“You're right,” Dean struggled out of his t-shirt. “Do I have any more blood on my face?”

“Just there,” said Sammy, pointing to a spot at the corner of Dean's nose. “And there and there and there.” Dean wiped his face vigorously with his t-shirt. “You're good.”

Dean stared down at the soiled garment in his head and deciding it was beyond saving. He tossed it into the nearest garbage can, mentally tacking it onto the long list of things he'd have to explain to his dad.

“Here goes nothing,” Dean groaned, dragging his feet towards their room. Sammy trailed along closely, half-hiding behind his big brother. Too soon, they were standing in the doorway of their room. Dean and Sam stopped over the threshold, took in the sight before them, and froze.

The boys hadn't fully realized what a state the room was in when they left; it looked like there should have been yellow police tape over the door and a local news crew at the scene: furniture was knocked over, the glass-bottomed lamp was broken to pieces on the floor, blood was splattered on the carpet and smeared on the wall, and the trained eyes of a hunter would also note the broken salt line on the windowsill, the rock salt spilled all over the kitchen floor, and the Bible opened on the bed. Their father was standing in the center of this mess, his hands gripping the sides of his head, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably. It sounded like he was—

The brothers exchanged worried looks—dad almost never cried. Sammy looked scared. Dean felt a wave of guilt rush over him as the full implication of what they'd done hit them: not only had they disobeyed their father—they'd inadvertently led him to believe they'd been taken—or killed.

Not able to contain himself any longer, Sammy cried, “Dad!”

John froze. He turned his head slowly, not daring to believe he'd really just heard the voice of his baby boy. He saw his sons standing in the doorway, framed by the beginnings of the setting sun behind them. His mask of grief transformed into one of pure, unadulterated relief. “Boys,” he breathed, literally brought to his knees at the sight of his sons, alive and well. Dean and Sammy rushed over to him, falling into his open arms. John enveloped them both in a fierce hug, clinging to them as if his life depended on it, rocking them back and forth. “Thank God you're okay...” he murmured, and not exactly being one for religious exclamations, the young Winchesters realized just how scared they must have made their father. 

At long last, John pulled back, holding them at arms length as he appraised them, the corners of his eyes crinkled in a tear-rimmed smile. Passing his assessment, John stroked Sammy's soft cheek with his calloused hand and murmured, “You're fine...you're okay—I thought...” John's face crumpled, and he once again drew his boys into a tight embrace. Dean couldn't stand the feeling of guilt burning his chest for causing their father so much grief, for scaring him like that—he knew that him and Sammy were all dad had...

“I'm sorry, dad,” Dean said into John's shoulder. “I'm so sorry—it was all my fault!”

“No it wasn't!” Sam blurted out before John could respond, “It was my fault!”

John finally relinquished the embrace, straightening up to his full height. “Boys,” he said sternly, as the brothers continued to argue over who was at greater fault. “I don't care whose fault all—whatever this is was, but one of you had better explain to me what happened.”

“I opened the window—I broke the salt line, I let it in!” Sammy cried, wringing his hands with guilt. 

“Sammy!” Dean snapped, looking at his brother in horror. He glanced apprehensively at John's stricken face.

“And then Dean was trying to kill it and that's why there's blood everywhere—”

“Dean,” said John. His voice was deadly calm, though the panic in his eyes betrayed him. “What's Sammy talking about?”

Dean opened his mouth to speak, but there was no stopping Sammy now. “It scared me in the bathroom and I screamed, and then I hit Dean in the face with the door—on accident! He started bleeding everywhere and had to throw his shirt away. And he chased it all over the room and gave me sugar cubes and we went to get ice—”

“Whoa Sammy, slow down,” said John, placing his hands on Sammy's shoulders. Sammy paused, breathless, and looked hopelessly to his brother as if to say, “I'm not doing a very good job, am I?”

“I told you to let me tell it,” Dean muttered darkly.

John turned away from them, dragging a tired hand down his face as he walked a few paces away from them and shut the front door before turning back. He'd been trying to protect Sammy from this life for so long...he knew it couldn't last forever. Already dreading the response, he asked, “Dean—what got into the room?”

John felt Sammy's little fingers intertwine in his own. “I'll show you, dad.”

Apprehensive and more than a little confused (surely he would have noticed the remains of a supernatural entity when he'd done a sweep of the room!), John allowed his child to lead him by the hand, towards whatever the hell it was he wanted to show him. Standing in the gap between the two queen-size beds, Sammy pointed down at the floor.

John squinted down at the ground, trying to see what Sammy was pointing at. He expected to see ectoplasm, ashes—a scorched area in the carpet, the gooey remnants of a shapeshifter's transformation, or the smoldering remains of some personal artifact binding a vengeful spirit to the earth—he sure as hell hadn't been expecting this.

John shook his head in disbelief. “You have GOT to be kidding me...”

“I totally ganked that bee,” said Dean proudly. “Nothing hurts Sammy and lives to tell about it.”

John didn't say anything for a long time—he just stared down at the dead, Bible-bashed honeybee. The silence was growing increasingly uncomfortable, especially with John's unfathomable expression. Dean approached his father slowly, placing a hand on his sleeve. “Dad?”

John's hunched shoulders once again began to shake. Sammy and Dean exchanged troubled expressions. “Daddy? Are you okay?” Sammy asked tentatively.

John couldn't hold it in any longer: he burst into laughter, deep and sonorous. There were tears in his eyes again, but this time they were those of mirth. He collapsed onto one of the beds and fell onto his back, hands over his face as he laughed and laughed. Dean and Sam stood beside each other, motionless and utterly petrified—this reaction from their dad scared them more than any firm military-esque telling-off ever could.

“Oh, boys,” said John, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand as he pulled himself forward to sit on the edge of the bed. “Let me see if I've pieced this together right—Sammy opened a window, and a bee got in but he didn't know it. It scared him in the bathroom and he screamed, Dean, you came running and got a face-full of door. Then you chased the bee all over the room trying to kill it, knocking over the lamp, furniture, chairs, and that bag of rock salt in the kitchen—all the while bleeding everywhere. Which would probably explain why you're not wearing a shirt. I figured it was either that or the heat...then Sammy ended up getting stung, Dean killed the bee with the Bible, and he gave Sammy sugar cubes to distract him while he took out the stinger cos that's what your mother always did for him,” John paused here, with the same bittersweet smile he always wore whenever he brought up Mary. “Then you boys left the room to get ice for your wounds, figuring I'd never know you disobeyed orders and left the room, unfortunately at the same time I came home early. Did I miss anything?”

“No,” Dean picked his jaw up off the floor long enough to say, “Well, actually you got one thing wrong—I spilled the rock salt when I heard Sammy scream, not when—dad, how'd you figure that all out?”

“What can I say?” John smiled warmly, “I know my boys.”

“So you're not mad?” Dean asked, hardly daring to believe they could be so lucky.

John sighed. “I can't say I'm all too pleased about you disobeying a direct order,” Dean was afraid John was going to bring up the similar incident with the shritga, but he didn't, instead continuing with, “But I guess there was no real harm done, except to the room of course...you boys got lucky. This time. But I mean it, Dean,” he looked at his eldest son seriously, their eyes locking. “All it takes is one mistake. You understand?”

Dean swallowed hard, nodding. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. From now on, there's absolutely no leaving the room while I'm away. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” the boys chorused.

John nodded his approval. “I'll make sure to get a bucket of ice in the room beforehand from now on, keep it in the freezer so there's never any call to leave. Now,” John slapped his knee, beckoning Sammy forward, and the boy immediately clambered up into John's lap. “Where'd you get stung, Sammy?”

“Here,” Sammy stuck out his lip in a pout as he thrust his right hand out, suddenly looking and sounding much younger than his seven years. John took Sammy's hand gently, holding it close to his eyes to examine it. “Stinger's out, no bits left behind...not too swollen, thanks to icing it...” John looked up at Dean, smiling proudly. “You did good, son.”

Dean grinned shyly, inwardly glowing at the praise from his father that he so desperately craved. “Thanks, dad.” He coughed awkwardly. “So does it still hurt, Sammy?”

“If I say yes, can I have more sugar cubes?” asked Sam hopefully.

Dean and John both chuckled appreciatively at Sammy. John's strong arms tightened around Sammy's middle, tilting his chin down and kissing the top of Sammy's head. He looked up in alarm as Dean's residual laughter turned to hoarse coughing, and a steady stream of blood began to drip out of his nose again. John immediately stood, setting Sammy on the bed and rushing into the bathroom. “Tilt your head forward and pinch the bridge of your nose, Dean,” he called as he reached for one of the motel's fluffy white towels stacked neatly on a shelf above the cracked porcelain sink.

He came back into the room, placed a hand on Dean's shoulder and held the towel in front of his face. “Take this, kiddo.”

“Dad, are you sure?” Dean asked uncertainly, eyeing the snow white towel.

“What's one more thing destroyed in this room, right? They can just add the dry cleaning to the damage expenses tab.” Mr. Cleaver would be picking up the tab.

“Is Dean gonna be okay?” Sam asked fretfully, mesmerized by the way the pure white towel was slowly turning scarlet.

“He'll be fine, Sammy,” said John reassuringly, still holding the towel as Dean pinched his nose, slowly staunching the bleeding. “It's not unusual to have a nosebleed start up again, especially when you've been overexerting yourself,” he said with a pointed look at Dean, who shrugged sheepishly.

“I think it's stopped, dad,” said Dean. John pulled the towel away to see Dean was right. 

“Alright, just lie down and take it easy, pal,” said John, guiding Dean over to the bed. “Keep the towel with you.”

“Okay, dad,” said Dean, obediently laying down, bloodied towel laying precautionarily on his chest. John ruffled his hair affectionately.

“Right, so I was thinking dinner now,” said John, clapping his hands together. “What sounds good?”

Predictably, Sammy exclaimed “Pizza!” at the same time Dean cried, “Burgers...and pie!”

Correctly assuming the decision could take awhile, John left his boys to duke it out and took the opportunity to reinforce the broken salt lines by the door and window. He picked up the fallen can, scooping as much rock salt back in as he could.

“We always get burgers, Dean. Let's get something different.”

“Burger and fries is an American classic, Sammy.”

“But pizza tastes better.”

“You bite your tongue!” Dean sat up, “I'll play you for it. Rock paper scissors.”

“Bring it on!” said Sammy confidently, making a fist.

The matter still hadn't sorted itself out by the time he was done securing the room, so John chose this moment to intervene. “Enough, boys,” he pushed Dean's shoulder to make him lay back down, effectively saving him the shame of losing to his little brother...again. That kid was quick on the draw and always able to anticipate his opponent's throw—which was easy, since it was always scissors.

Too tired to play mediator, John reached for his car keys in the pocket of his leather jacket. “I can see it's gonna be another one of those two-stop kinda nights. I'll be back soon. Sammy, you lock and bolt the door after I leave. Okay?”

Sammy nodded.

“And after we eat, we're gonna try to clean this place up,” said John, staring around at the trashed hotel room. 

Neither of the boys were thrilled about this task, but knowing that the mess was their doing (mostly Dean), neither protested. “Yes, sir.”

John checked his watch. “I'll be back in a half hour, tops. You know the rules, boys. Don't answer unless it's Deep Purple. And take care of your brother, Sammy.” 

“Okay,” Dean said automatically. “Wait—what?”

“You're laid-out, Dean. Bed rest—that's an order. I don't want that nosebleed of yours starting again, okay? Just take it easy until I get back.”

“Okay, dad,” said Dean, dumbly. Sammy grinned, climbing up onto the bed beside Dean. “I've got this, dad. I'll take gooooood care of him.” He patted the top of Dean's head, causing the pre-teen to scowl.

“Okay, then,” John chuckled. “I'll be back soon, boys. Sammy, don't forget to lock the door—if you can leave your patient long enough.”

Sammy nodded his head fervently, and John stepped out, closing the door behind him. Sammy scurried off the bed, picked up one of the fallen chairs, dragging it over to the door. He climbed up on it, locking the door and sliding the deadbolt into place. He hopped down, resuming his post at Dean's side.

“We got really lucky, didn't we, Dean?” said Sammy brightly, fluffing Dean's pillow around his head.

“Yeah,” said Dean sourly, spitting out a feather. Because of that stupid bee, he now had Nurse Sammy. “Real lucky...”

 

The End


End file.
